River Piddle, Dorset UK

By Paul Slaney

River Piddle

The weekend passed here in a delightful summer, fishy haze. My friend
Arthur came over from Ireland for the weekend to fish the Wessex
chalkstreams. Trip has been arranged for some time and I had been
very much looking forward to it.

So Friday afternoon found me driving the 4 hour trip from the
National Exhibition Centre in Birmingham down to the beautiful
little Dorset village of Tolpuddle.

As I drove those last few miles through the flood plains of the
rivers Frome and diminutive Piddle, the worries of the working week
shed from my mind and like a fine aperitif the occasional glimses of jewel
like chalkstream through the greenery sharpened my appetite for the
fishing to come.

The venue for our all too brief visit, was The Wessex School of
Flyfishing, our host Mr Richard Scocock, owner of the school and manager of
several miles of prime chalkstream fishing on the Frome, Piddle and
three spring fed lakes. We were to fish the Piddle on Saturday.

I met Arthur as I drove into the lane leading to the school, he was
heading in the opposite direction, to the pub, a quick
handshake through open car windows, a quick u-turn for me and minutes
later we were tucking into pints of the local ale and ham and eggs.
The talk? fishing of course!

A couple or three pints later found us booked into our bed and
breakfast accommodation at the school, tackled up and on the bank of
one Richards crystal clear spring fed lakes. And just as the sun
started to set in the western sky, our first casts to swirling fish in
Dorset.

Man! those fish were difficult! our initial beer induced confidence
drained with each fly we tried. Each fly steadfastly refused by the
still swirling fish just an easy cast away. Insects and bats filled the
night air, the derisive hoot of a Tawny Owl mocked us from the woods
behind, a gentle mist shrouded the lake and the taunting fish still
swirled and slurped at their supper. There was only one plan of
action to be taken.

We packed up fishless and went back up to the pub (grin) More beer
and fishing talk and long after midnight we strolled back to our beds
through the leafy lanes, a clear and fine night. The way lit by every star
in the heavens as it can only be in a place far away from the artificial
glow of civilisation.

Saturday morning dawned fine, sunny and a little breezy. After a good
breakfast we met with Richard who told us that our fishing for the
day was to be on two beats of the Piddle and the run of lakes, this
was a very generous offer on his part when you consider that all that
water would be for our sole use. On a large scale map of the beats he
pointed out the most promising runs and holes, throwing in some tales
of huge fish yet to be caught and their positions with remarkable
accuracy! (no fishing report would be complete without tales of big
fish Eh? More on this later) So plenty of fishy opportunity to be
had and thus our confidence of a good day soared to a new high.

A little about the Landscape and the River Piddle.

The Piddle flows west to east through some of the most attractive
countryside in the south of England. From its source on the southern
chalk slopes of Blackmoor vale it runs its short course to the sea at
Wareham, visiting along the way the thatched roofed, picture postcard
villages of Piddletrenthide, Piddlehinton, Puddletown, Tolpuddle and
Briantspuddle.

Its deep, narrow, meandering course through prime agricultural land
is shrouded for most of its length by high, lush bankside vegetation,
the only way to fish the Piddle is from within, up to your mid thigh
in water with short little casts through the tunnel of vegetation.

The Piddle is home to the whole run of waterbourne life, good hatches
of olives, mayfly, sedge and midges. Arthur was suprised to see the
shocking yellow of the Yellow May Dun flitting over the water. A
hatch that he wasn't familiar with in Ireland. The fish are all wild
browns, healthy, well fed fish and the stretches under the management of
Richard are almost unique in the UK as he doesn't supplement the head
of fish by stocking. All his guests are required to practice catch
and release. NO fish to be killed. PERIOD!

His gentle, sympathetic water management methods, coupled with
intelligent weed cutting should be a milestone for most water
keepers of my aquaintance. In my honest opinion, this is a prime
example of what a healthy chalkstream should be, you can keep
the Test and Itchen, sadly they seem to be little more than stock
ponds, put and take fishing for much of their course these days.

So back to the fishing.

We started at the bridge at Braintspuddle, parked the car in a field
and walked through some woods to be greeted by the sun dappled Piddle
in fine flow. Straight away we started to spot fish holding in the
currents between the long weed fronds. I love the contrasts in colour
on the chalkstrams, deep lush green banks of weed, golden chalk and flint
gravel between them and dappled light capping it all. The flies of choice
were shrimp imitations as it was still early in the morning and no fish
were rising that we could see.

The first shots at them were disastrous, fish scattering in all
directions. Our haste to get at the water resulting in missed
opportunities. But after a while we both settled into it and started
to take a fish here and a fish there, leapfrogging each other up the
stream as we fished. The fish weren't big, 14 inches was a fine
example but they were as tough and wary as they could be. Each
fooled fish a minor victory.

This developed into the pattern of the morning. Myself fishing the
shrimp and Arthur taking fish using a #14 Klinkhamer. As the morning
warmed up, the strength of the wind rose adding another interesting
challenge, the lightweight lines we were using and the accurate casts
needed between the weeds and under the canopy of vegetation getting
more difficult to control as lunchtime approached.

Back to the pub, for food and to regroup before the afternoon
session. But first a stop to peer over the bridge somewhere near
Briantspuddle.

Remember the talk of big fish? Well, just below us was a long frond
of weed and as we watched mesmerised by its gentle undulations in the
current a fish of around 2 pounds shot out from under it in panic
shortly followed by a persuing fish that was easily three times that
in weight. The glimpse of that fish awed both of us as he quietly
slipped back under the weed having seen off the intruder.

Lunch was spent formulating a cunning plan to extract that beauty
from his weedy home.

Back at the water. . .

Switching into commando mode, we put the plan into action
with clockwork precision. Spotter on the bridge, fisher in the water
swimming the fly in and out under the weedbed. Again and again!
Presentation looked perfect enough that even a blind fish would take
that fly! But he had us beat! Quick review of tactics, some ideas
that would have made Richard cringe. Hey! we are only human! But we
decided to leave him be and concentrate on his smaller brethren
upstream.

The afternoon and evening turned into a repeat of the morning, a few
more fish, a few more pools fished. Our best success came in the
sheltered areas of the stream, the wind by now was making an accurate
presentation almost impossible.

The final score at the end of the day? Well, enough to satisfy
honour, but not enough that we didn't feel humbled by these brave
little Wessex fish.

Later that evening, as we finished a delicious curry before we went
our separate ways, the heavens opened into a torrential rain storm.
It looks like the health of the Piddle and its inhabitants is
assured with fresh water from the chalk aquifers.

As I left the Piddle behind that rainy night, my thoughts turned to the
good company I'd enjoyed, to our gracious host, to the excellent fishing we
were lucky enough to obtain, to the good food and beer we were
served and to that undulating mat of weed below an ancient stone
bridge somewhere near Briantspuddle in the leafy depths of southern
England . . . ~ Paul Slaney